DONOVAN
A Novel
BY
EDNA LYALL
AUTHOR OF
"WON BY WAITING."
"And I smiled to think God's greatness flowed around
Our incompleteness,--
Round our restlessness, His rest."
E. B. BROWNING.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
LONDON:
HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS,
13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.
1882.
_All rights reserved._
Contents
I. Cast Adrift
II. Rouge et Noir
III. "The Raven for a Guide"
IV. Struggling On
V. Monaco
VI. Losing Self to Find
VII. "O'er Moor and Fen"
VIII. One and All
IX. In a Home
X. Oakdene Manor
XI. The Ideal Woman
DONOVAN.
CHAPTER I.
CAST ADRIFT.
Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us,
Not a hope that dare attend,
The wide world is all before us,
But a world without a friend.
BURNS.
Two dry sticks will set on fire one green.
He that takes the raven for a guide shall light upon carrion.
_Eastern Proverbs._
How long were things to go on in their present state? That was the
question which, as the spring advanced, Ellis Farrant continually
asked himself. One afternoon, towards the end of May, the thought
pressed itself upon him more pertinaciously than ever. He was in the
smoking-room, leaning back meditatively in his chair, from time to
time reading a few lines in the _Sporting News_, but more often
looking discontentedly and perplexedly at his step-son, who had drawn
up his chair to the other side of the hearth, and whose fine profile
was clearly marked out against the light as he bent over his
newspaper. Two days ago Donovan had come of age, yet Ellis had not
carried out his preconceived plan of revenge; in the past he had
always intended to have the final breach with his step-son on the
very day that his guardianship ended, but when the time actually came
his heart failed him--no fitting opportunity presented itself.
Instead of quarrelling with him, he drank his health at dinner,
played billiards with him most of the evening, and was as
good-natured and friendly as possible. But, although the few months
which had elapsed since Dot's death had been singularly peaceable
ones at the Manor, Ellis had not lost his strong dislike to Donovan.
He had at first felt sorry for him, and had left him unmolested; but
it is one thing to sympathise with a person in the first poignancy of
his grief, and quite another to understand or feel for his prolonged
sorrow.
As the months passed on, and Donovan's grave stern face still
remained unaltered, Ellis began to feel aggravated; he saw little
enough of his step-son, but what he did see was quite sufficient to
annoy him. Donovan would perhaps come down to breakfast, then he
would disappear for the rest of the day, for long solitary rides or
walks seemed to be his only relief; at dinner he would be in his
place again, but would rarely utter a single word, and in the
evening, though he was decidedly Ellis's superior at every game, he
was too gloomy and taciturn to be a pleasant companion. The elder
man's dislike and impatience began to grow uncontrollable; he found
himself looking out eagerly for an opportunity of picking a quarrel.
As he sat looking thoughtfully across the room at his companion, his
doubts were suddenly resolved by an unexpected turn of affairs.
Donovan threw down his paper, and, turning round to his step-father,
asked abruptly,
"When do you go up to town?"
"Next week, I believe," said Ellis, knocking the ashes out of his
pipe and re-filling it.
There was a pause. Then Donovan continued,
"I have been thinking over things for the last few days, and I've
made up my mind that this sort of life won't do for me any longer. I
must begin to work at something."
"A most commendable decision," said Ellis. "And that's the longest
sentence I've heard from you for many a month."
Donovan knew from the tone of this speech that his step-father was in
a quarrelsome humour. He frowned, but continued, with some
additional constraint in his manner,
"Since we are agreed, then, perhaps it would be as well if we
arranged matters before leaving Oakdene. I am thinking of going into
chambers and studying for the Bar; if you and my mother will settle
my allowance, there is nothing that need keep me here longer."
"Gently, my good fellow," said Ellis, getting up from his chair with
the feeling that he could carry things through with a high hand if he
were standing above his step-son. "You are in rather too great a
hurry; you rattle off in a few words what involves a great deal. I
too have been thinking matters over, not only for the last two or
three days, but for some time; by all means set to work if you like,
only do not expect me to support you any longer. Live in chambers,
if you will, and be a law-student for as many years as you please,
only don't think that I shall keep you during the interval or pay
your premium."
Donovan started to his feet.
"I don't understand you," he said, with repressed indignation. "What
do you mean by this?"
"Simply what I say," said Ellis, provokingly.
"You mean me to understand that I am not to have any proper allowance
made me?"
"Exactly so, though I don't admit the adjective."
The two men stood facing each other. For a few minutes neither
spoke; Donovan's eyes dilated, and his face glowed with indignation.
Ellis met his look with a cool bold effrontery.
At length the silence was broken by Donovan's voice.
"And _this_ is what you have waited and plotted for! this is the part
of the honourable English gentleman, to steal into a house, and win
your way craftily, and mislead wilfully and shamefully those who
never suspected your wickedness! Yes, you have fulfilled your duties
as a guardian nobly, and now you would oust the 'insufferable cub,'
whom you longed to kick out months ago, only you couldn't; instead
you hoodwinked him, flattered, lured him on with false hopes. You
_scoundrel_!"
"The step-son waxes hot," said Ellis, with a sneer, "as, naturally,
we part this day, I will allow a few last shots."
"Wretch! Do you dare to turn me out of my own father's house?--you
an interloper, a defrauder!"
"I have tolerated your presence in the house for ten months," said
Ellis; "I knew that the time remaining was short, I let you stay on
in peace; you have aggravated me at times beyond bearing, and now,
with the greatest pleasure in life, I show you the door. You
surmised quite truly, I have often longed to 'kick you out,' as you
express it; take care that you do not force me to interpret the words
literally."
"Do you think," said Donovan, angrily, "that my mother is so utterly
unnatural that she will allow me to be treated in this way? I tell
you you are mistaken, sir."
"You forget that your mother is my wife," said Ellis, watching his
victim's writhing lip with a sort of enjoyment. "But, come now, I'll
overlook what you've said, and we will part amicably; do not cut your
own throat by refusing the pardon I offer."
"_Pardon_! And from you!" cried Donovan, passionately. "Am I to
accept forgiveness for words which are a hundred times too mild for
your conduct? I'll let the world know of the injustice, I'll publish
your scandalous behaviour everywhere in the neighbourhood!"
"The only drawback to that scheme of revenge is the unfortunate
character you yourself bear in the place," said Ellis, maliciously.
"The neighbourhood will not very readily sympathise with any stories
which the far-famed Donovan Farrant, the professed atheist, thinks
fit to fabricate."
The statement was so true that Donovan could not deny it, but the
consciousness of his utter isolation and the sense of injustice drove
him almost to madness.
"That may be true!" he stormed, "anything may be true in a cruel,
self-seeking, unjust world, but though everyone is against me, though
I've not a creature on earth to hold out a hand to me, I will at
least speak my mind to you. You are a traitor, sir, and a villain!"
"Take care," said Ellis, his colour mounting, "I give you fair
warning that those words are actionable; use them again at your
peril."
"You dare me to use them!" said Donovan, furiously. "I will repeat
them a thousand times--you are a treacherous, despicable villain!
Were a hundred witnesses present, a hundred lawsuits possible, I
would repeat it! What! am I to submit to be ruined without a
word?--am I to sink down meekly into beggary because a plotting,
scheming traitor like you dares to condemn me?"
Ellis was trembling with mingled fear and rage.
"You had better go while I can keep my hands off you," he said,
fiercely. "Stay longer and I'll have you sent to Bedlam."
Donovan's brain seemed to reel; it was almost impossible to believe
that he was actually being turned out of his father's house.
"I will see my mother," he said, with angry resolution in his voice.
"She will not suffer it, she cannot."
He strode out of the room fiercely, and hurried across the hall to
the dining-room. Waif, hearing his step, sprang up from the door-mat
and pattered after him, Ellis, following quickly, blocked the doorway
before the door closed. Donovan turned back wildly.
"I tell you I insist on seeing my mother alone," he said, with a look
so full of anger and hatred that Ellis shrank beneath it, but still
he was able to answer with cold decision,
"And I tell you that I refuse to leave my wife with a maniac."
"Be it so," cried Donovan, "but, though you deny me everything, you
cannot alter the instincts of nature. Mother, you will not--you
cannot agree to this wickedness. You will not turn me away from this
house penniless. You will not listen to what he says?"
Mrs. Farrant had been lying on the sofa; she started up from a doze
to find the room in an uproar--Donovan and her husband storming at
each other in a fashion without parallel. They had often before
disagreed, even quarrelled in her presence, but in a quiet
gentlemanly way, to which she did not object. This angry
vociferation terrified her beyond measure. Donovan's rare and almost
tropical outbursts of passion had always alarmed her. She turned now
from his wild looks and impetuous words to her husband, who stood by
in cold silence.
"What is the matter? What has happened, Ellis?" she asked,
helplessly. "Pray stop this terrible noise. It is quite impossible
for me to understand anything, Donovan, if you agitate me so."
"I will be quiet," he gasped, softening his voice with an effort. "I
will not worry you for a moment. Only trust me, mother; listen to me
fairly, and promise that you will not side against me. He--your
husband insults me, drives me out of the house--this house which
never ought to have been his--he turns me away penniless--say, only
say that it is against your wish!"
Mrs. Farrant's tears began to flow, and she turned to her husband
imploringly.
"Oh! Ellis, what has he done? Do not be hard upon him. He is the
only child I have left. What has he done?"
Even in that moment of tumult, Donovan felt a thrill of joy at his
mother's words. Was it possible that at last they might understand
each other--that Nature would assert herself above the thick clouds
of selfishness and uncongeniality which had so long divided them?
"Honora," said Ellis, in his coldest voice, "you must be content to
trust me with this. I cannot allow Donovan's presence in my house
any longer. For your sake I will let him go without calling him to
account for the disgraceful language he has used to me, but go he
must. He has been supported in idleness quite long enough; let him
win his way in the world now as he can."
Donovan stood with his back against the window frame, and with arms
folded, listening in silence to his step-father's words, listening,
too, with painful intensity, for his mother's answer. Would she
again plead for him, or would she be over-ruled by Ellis's cold
speech?
"There has been nothing but trouble about him," sobbed Mrs. Farrant.
"There seems to be a fate against me; nothing goes well. I have
trouble after trouble. Oh! Donovan, why did you bring about this
quarrel? For my sake you might have respected your step-father."
"At least believe that it was not my doing," cried Donovan, bitterly
disappointed by her tone. "If you would only have believed what I
told you last summer, we could not have been in this position; but
who can stand against the coils of a serpent!"
"Go, sir," said Ellis, angrily, "go at once, and do not try my
patience by upbraiding me before my wife."
"Did I not tell you that he would bring nothing but wretchedness to
us?" said Donovan, desperately. "The time may come when you will see
it more clearly. I can only hope that one victim may satisfy him,
and that you may never suffer."
Mrs. Farrant sobbed convulsively, Donovan stooped down and kissed
her, but, as he felt her tears wet on his cheek, he thought bitterly
how one brave decided word from her would have been worth all this
passionate sorrow.
With a dazzled bewildered feeling he crossed the hall and went up to
his room; in a few minutes his bell was rung, and a message sent down
to the housekeeper's room for Mrs. Doery to come upstairs. She came
to him at once, looking so unchanged, with her nut-cracker features,
sharp eyes, and respectable black dress and apron, that he felt
almost as if time had been standing still with her, while it had
brought such changes to him.
"Well, Mr. Donovan, what do you please to require?" she asked,
severely:
He roused himself, and said in his natural voice--a rich mellow
voice, but with a great ring of sadness in it--
"I am going away, Doery. Mr. Farrant has, in fact, turned me out of
the house. I want you to put up my things for me."
Then, with that strange contradictoriness whereby the very last
persons in the world whom we expect to love us, suddenly reveal
depths of unsuspected tenderness under the stress of some unusual
event, Mrs. Doery broke into indignant sobs. She had never heard the
like in her life! Turn her lad out of the house when he ought to
have been made his father's heir! It was impossible, intolerable,
she never would believe the law of England would allow it! Her
indignation rather softened Donovan, it was such a relief to feel
that anyone, even this cross-grained old woman, would take his part!
It seemed a strange reversal of the old order of things--Doery,
stimulated by the cruelty of others, to allow some merit in him, or
at least to bestow her pity on her ne'er-do-weel. He left her with a
substantial souvenir, both for herself and for Dot's maid, Phœbe,
generosity which in the precarious state of his finances was more
natural than wise. Then he took a last look at Dot's room, put her
little carriage clock with his own hands into his portmanteau, and
leaving directions with Doery for his things to be sent to the
Greyshot Station in time for an evening train, he went downstairs.
Ellis was in the hall, waiting half nervously for the full
accomplishment of his plans, for the crowning moment of his triumph.
Donovan passed by him without speaking, deliberately took down his
stick and riding-whip from the rack, and then, facing round upon his
step-father, said with a depth of concentrated hatred and contempt,
"We part here, then. Remember always how admirably you have goaded
me on to ruin!"
Then the door was closed behind him, and Donovan left the house which
should have been his, and walked away alone.
It was a beautiful spring afternoon, the dark fir-trees and the early
crimson of the copper beech stood out against the blue of the sky,
the oaks were beginning to show their green leaves, the pink and
white thorns were in full bloom. The beauty of the place seemed
never to have been so great before, and though very often Donovan had
thought the Manor dull and prison-like, yet now that he was exiled
from it he found how large a place it had in his heart. And he was
to leave it for ever! his home was to remain in the hands of his
greatest enemy! At the first bend in the carriage drive he
involuntarily turned back for a last look at the house. It stood
there in the afternoon sunshine, with just the same air of sleepy
luxurious comfort which it had always worn; there, above the
creeper-laden porch, was the window of his old room, and close by it
Dot's window. He remembered the day when he had decided to give up
his foreign tour for the sake of being with her, and heard in fancy
the childish voice which could never again call him; how strange now
seemed the struggle of the past to give up his longing for a change
of scene! how he grudged every hour that he had spent away from Dot!
It was hard, very hard, to turn away from the place so full of her
memory; no thought of future difficulties had as yet forced itself
upon him, indignation and bitter sorrow drove out everything
else--everything but a vague feeling of more complete desolation,
more utter loneliness. He had thought that he had drained the full
bitterness of the cup of life in the agony of bereavement, but here
was a fresh draught which in its humiliating injustice was gall and
wormwood to him.
All this time he was not however so friendless as he imagined; Waif
followed him closely. His devotion to his master, which had always
been very great, had become more marked since Dot's death; in
Donovan's lonely rides and long walks Waif had always accompanied
him, he had learnt to understand his master's moods and knew
perfectly when to keep to heel in silent unobtrusiveness, and when to
frisk and gambol about him; he had watched the stormy scene in the
drawing-room, had followed Donovan noiselessly up and downstairs, now
he trotted demurely behind him, well aware that this was not the
right time to draw attention to his presence.
The gates were passed at length, and Donovan stood without in the
white dusty road; he did not pause or hesitate or look back now, but
strode along with fierce rapid steps, down the hill, through the
little village, past old Mr. Hayes' deserted house, to the tiny grey
church in the valley. Everything looked cruelly peaceful, on the
hillside a herd of cows were browsing, a column of blue smoke curled
up from the chimney of a little farmhouse close by, a country woman
passed him singing to the brown-eyed baby in her arms. Contrasted
with all this were Ellis's cruel words ringing in his ears, and the
recollection of the hateful look of vindictive triumph which he had
seen in his step-father's face. The frenzied passionate indignation
surged up in his heart with redoubled force, he threw open the
churchyard gate, and hurried up the flagged path, pausing however
beside the little porch to look at a notice which had met his eye, as
trifling things do sometimes force themselves upon us in moments of
great agitation. He read with growing bitterness the words:--
"NEW ORGAN FUND.--Ellis Farrant, Esq., of Oakdene Manor, having
generously promised £200 to the above fund, it is earnestly hoped
that the additional £100 still required may be obtained. A special
collection will be made, &c., &c." Charity, church-organs,
generosity to win a good name with the world! behind the outward
show, injustice, tyranny, and hatred!
Donovan turned aside past the great yew tree to the place where
little Dot had been laid. The stone had just been put up, a
recumbent cross, the sharp outlines of the white marble standing out
clearly against the green grass; he threw himself down upon it in one
of his terrible paroxysms of grief, in pain so unalleviated that it
seemed like strong physical torture added to the mental suffering.
How long he lay there with his face pressed down to the cold marble,
and his hands grasping strainedly at the turf he never knew; it must
have been for a long long time, for when he staggered to his feet
again the sun was setting, and he found that only by walking briskly
could he reach Greyshot in time for the evening train to London.
With a still white cold face, which seemed to have absorbed something
of the hard rigidity of the marble cross, he looked his last at the
little grave, then hastily recrossed the churchyard. Waif, who had
been watching him all the time with considerable anxiety, trotted on
in front of him, but at the gate turned back to meet him and began to
draw attention to himself by a series of whines and barks and bounds
in the air; he could not have chosen a better moment for making his
presence known, Donovan felt at once the relieved re-action from hard
bitter despair to a half-amused gratitude; this dumb creature loved
him, there could be no doubt of that, and there are times in the
lives of most of us, when the love even of dumb things wins a tenfold
preciousness because of its unquestioning faithfulness, its fearless
devotion, its contrast to the changeful doubting unreliable affection
of men, who can judge and speak their judgment. He stooped down and
let the dog spring up to his knee, while he patted the sagacious
white and tan head; then, remembering that his time was short, he
started up again with a sudden return of energy.
"Come along, old fellow," he said, in his usual voice, "you and I
will go through the world together."
Waif wagged his tail, pricked up his black ear, drooped the white
one, and bounded along as if he enjoyed the thought of the
companionship.
It was growing dusk when the dog and his master reached Greyshot; the
station lamps were lighted; somehow Donovan's choking indignation
began to diminish under the influence of the excitement. He had been
unjustly used, certainly, but the world was before him, and the world
began to seem more attractive than he had thought; the cool evening
wind blew through the station, the platform was rather crowded, for
the first time a boyish sense of the pleasure of freedom stole across
him; here he was accountable to no one, free to do exactly as he
pleased, with his portmanteau and his dog he could roam where he
liked. He took a ticket for himself and Waif to Paddington without
any very distinct idea why he chose London as his first resort,
turning to it perhaps only as the sort of natural home which the
great city seems to most Englishmen. Then he sauntered up and down,
waiting for the train, looked at the brightly lighted book-stall,
scanned the faces of the crowd, while all the time his thoughts were
running pretty much in this way:
"I must make the best of life; hateful and worthless as it is, I may
as well enjoy myself as much as I can. The world is full of
injustice, I will pay it back in its own coin."
Presently the train was heard in the distance, in another minute his
golden-eyed destiny flashed into sight, there was haste and confusion
on the platform. Waif, with his ticket tied to his collar, kept
close to his master's heels, till Donovan, opening the door of a
carriage, prepared to lift him in; the occupants, however, objected,
a nervous middle aged lady started up from her corner, she could not
endure dogs, she really must beg that he did not get into that
carriage. Donovan retreated, and hurried on to the next vacant
place, taking care this time to put the question,
"Do you mind the dog?"
"Oh, dear no," said a pleasant bland voice, and he sprang in just as
the train started.
When he had put up his bag and walking-stick, he threw himself back
in a corner seat, and began to scrutinize his fellow-passengers.
They were three in number, and they were beguiling the time with a
game of euchre. The individual with the pleasant voice, who had
consented to Waif's admittance, sat next to Donovan, so that he could
only see his profile; he seemed to be a short, heavily-made man
between fifty and sixty, with an unnaturally red face, thick neck,
and scanty red hair sprinkled with grey; he was singularly ugly, but
his expression was more weak than unpleasant, especially when he
turned round with some trifling remark to Donovan, and showed his
little twinkling watery eyes, good-natured mouth, and round face.
His two companions were much younger men, the one furthest from
Donovan was faring badly in the game, he was a sleek-looking, bearded
man, dressed rather extravagantly, and wearing a heavy watch-chain
and bunch of charms; there was an air of vulgar prosperity about him,
and Donovan instantly surmised that he was some wealthy manufacturer
or tradesman. The remaining traveller was a much more perplexing
study. After watching him for some time, Donovan had not in the
least arrived at any decision about him, he might have been a
sporting gentleman, or a superior commercial traveller, or a
newspaper correspondent, or possibly a card-sharper. Donovan tried
to fit every one of these "callings" upon him; each succeeded for a
time, and then fell to the ground. He was, however, peculiarly
attractive. His companions were very soon forgotten altogether in
the absorbing interest of watching this man's exceedingly clever play
and curious face. He had a square massive forehead, black hair
receding from the temples, and just beginning to turn grey, a dark
oily complexion, very small black eyes, with a dissatisfied look in
them, and heavy dark eyebrows, level towards the bridge of the nose,
but arched at the other end, and raised still higher when he became
interested.
Before very long the manufacturer was beaten, and the dark-browed man
turned to Donovan, shuffling the cards as he spoke.
"Will you make a fourth at whist?"
The question was asked so casually, as if the speaker cared little
whether he complied or not, that Donovan, who had rather inclined to
the opinion that he was a professional gambler, was completely
deceived by it. He only hesitated a moment, then the red-haired
elder man turned round with his good-humoured smile, and said, in his
pleasant voice,
"We should be delighted, if you would join us. One needs something
of the sort on a long journey, to while away the time."
Without further preamble the game began. The stakes were high;
Donovan grew excited, and forgot for the time his anger and the
bitter treatment to which he had been subjected. He was partner with
the rich manufacturer; the strange-looking, dark-browed man was
playing with the elder with the red hair. He was a daring opponent,
and Donovan, who was accustomed to carry everything before him, was
roused and interested to a most unwonted degree. It was a close and
exciting game, eventually won by the two strangers, but Donovan's
skilful play had evidently surprised his dark-looking opponent, who
scrutinized him curiously, while the red-haired traveller began to
compliment him.
Presently they stopped at Swindon, and Donovan, beginning to be
conscious that he had eaten nothing for many hours, hurried away with
the others towards the refreshment-room. As he waited for an instant
among the crowd of passengers, he heard a sharp voice, low, and yet
singularly distinct, not far from him.
"Now mind, your work's not done yet, so be careful."
Glancing round, Donovan saw that the speaker was his late opponent;
the good-humoured face of his red-haired companion clouded a little,
and there was something of the expression of a spoilt child about his
mouth as he replied.
"Plague upon it! You never can let a fellow enjoy himself, Noir.
I'm sure I've been as temperate as old Oliver himself----"
The rest of the sentence died away in the distance, but apparently
Noir enforced his advice, for, some minutes before Donovan left the
refreshment-room, his two fellow-travellers repassed him on their way
to the carriage.
Waif sat guarding his master's property. The two men did not notice
him; the younger one, who had been addressed as Noir, flung himself
back in his place, the elder fidgeted about restlessly, talking in
his hearty voice the while.
"What do you think of our two friends?"
"The manufacturer is a fool," said Noir, decidedly. "The young one's
as sharp as a needle."
"Ha! I thought as much. He'd have beaten us hollow, wouldn't he, if
it hadn't been for certain----"
"Be quiet!" said the younger man, sharply. "You'll undo us some day
by your want of caution."
"Shall you try any more this evening?"
"I don't know. I think not. I wish I could get that young fellow
for a second instead of you. He'd be the making of us."
"A cut above our sort of thing, isn't he?"
"Can't say, but he looks discontented enough. We'll sound him, get
the manufacturer to draw him out."
Then, as the other traveller returned, Noir suddenly changed his
tone, and very skilfully drew the conversation round to the desired
subject. They had just been talking of his partner. He seemed a
clever fellow. They were wondering what he was. For his part, he
would bet ten to one that he was in the Army. The manufacturer
thought he was an undergraduate. There was some laughter over the
dispute. It was agreed that, by hook or by crook, they would find
out which was in the right by the end of the journey. Then the bell
sounded. There was hurrying to and fro on the platform, and at the
very last moment Donovan stalked back to his place, perfectly
unconscious of the small plot which his companions had been making.
He had brought back a biscuit for Waif, and the dog made a good
opening for conversation. Then the manufacturer mentioned by chance
that he came _from Bristol_, and Donovan, to the satisfaction of the
three conspirators, began to ask questions as to the likelihood of
finding any suitable employment there.
"Oh! with capital, you can always get on," said the rich man, easily.
"Nothing can be done in this world without money, but there are
plenty of openings there for any young men wanting employment."
"Provided they are capitalists," said Donovan, with bitterness, which
did not escape Noir's keen observance.
"Oh! well, of course you might meet with a clerkship," said the
manufacturer, "but it's a difficulty to get them very often, there's
such a run on them; and besides, that would hardly be in your line,
would it?"
"No," said Donovan, haughtily; then, with a touch of humour, he
added, "Though, to be sure, I've not much right to talk of 'my line.'"
The talk drifted on by degrees to the recent strikes in Lancashire,
and the manufacturer and Donovan had a hot argument on the subject of
wages, in which the latter's keen sense of injustice and oppression
was fully brought to light; he talked so fiercely of the tyranny of
the rich, the grinding down of the poor, the dishonest grasping of
the capitalists, that Noir felt sure there was some personal feeling
involved in the dispute, certain that in some way this young fellow's
life had been embittered by the tyranny and injustice which he
inveighed against. The dark brows were raised higher and higher as
the argument went on; evidently Donovan's words had touched some
kindred feeling in the man's heart. At last he could contain himself
no longer, but joined in the dispute, linking his vehement words with
Donovan's, till between them they fairly overwhelmed the rich Bristol
man. Then at once there was established between them that strange
sympathy which comes like a lightning flash, when two minds are
entirely one upon a subject not usually agreed upon. They had been
united in argument, and in an argument very nearly touching their own
lives; instinctively Donovan held out his hand when they parted at
Paddington, and the dark-browed man grasped it with a warmth and
heartiness curiously contradictory to his disposition. He was in
reality a hardened cheat, but his one vulnerable spot had been
touched, and he at once conceived a strong liking for his young ally.
Perhaps few places are so dependent on the frame of mind one is in as
London. No place seems so pleasant to a sociable person in a happy
humour, no place so cold and uncongenial to anyone in trouble. Then
with what heartless indifference the busy crowd passes by, how the
careless talk, the hearty laugh, the cool stare of one's kind wound
and sting; with what envy does one look at the smiling faces, and how
(foolishly and morbidly, of course) one compares them with the priest
and the Levite in the parable; though how they can help "passing by
on the other side," when one is only stripped and wounded and robbed
by the unseen foes of life which prey on the inner man, a troubled
mind, is generally too illogical to consider. The forlornness of his
position did not come upon Donovan all at once. During the months
which had passed since little Dot's death, in his sorrow "without
hope," worthier and more manly thoughts had grown up in his heart; he
had made up his mind to work at something, and, though his chief
object had been merely to divert his thoughts by the work, the
resolve was still in the right direction. The rude repulse which he
had met with from Ellis when he suggested his new idea, and the
hardness of his expulsion from Oakdene, crushed down for the time all
these better thoughts; but in a little while, from sheer necessity,
they sprang up again. It was evidently impossible that he could live
for any length of time on the remains of his last allowance; he must
gain his living in some way, and now, for the first time, he felt
fully how fatal to his interests Ellis's guardianship had been. Had
he been forced to enter some profession, or had he even received a
better education after his school career was ended, he would not now
have been so helpless; yet, after all, he would scarcely have
consented to leave Dot, even had he known beforehand of Ellis's
malignant intention; only now it added bitterness to his indignation
to think how coolly and systematically his step-father had planned
his ruin. Why was it?--what had he done to earn such hatred? He
asked himself those questions over and over again, knowing nothing of
the first great wrong which Ellis had done him--the wrong which was
at the root of all the subsequent evil.
The morning after his arrival he hurried off at once to Bedford Row
to consult his father's solicitor, the same who had come down to his
grandfather's funeral, and had initiated him into the mysteries of
_vingt-et-un_. He was by this time an elderly man; but though he
listened to Donovan kindly, and refused to take any fee for the
consultation, he showed him at once that he had no legal claim
whatever on Ellis Farrant or his mother now that he was of age. His
case was no doubt a very hard one; he should think that by continued
applications he might reasonably expect to extort some allowance, if
only a small one, from his step-father. As to his mother, she had no
power at all apart from her husband; he could take counsel's opinion
if he liked, but it would be simply throwing away his two guineas--it
was a matter quite out of the province of law, a family matter which
must be arranged, by family feeling and natural affection. As to
employment, he should advise him to apply to any influential men he
knew in town; it was possible he might get some post in one of the
Government offices. The lawyer hoped that Mr. Farrant would dine
with him some evening--he had just moved to a new house at Brompton;
if he could ever be of any service to Mr. Farrant, he should be most
happy.
Donovan went away several degrees more depressed than before. His
prospects did indeed seem dreary; "continued applications" to Ellis
Farrant, or, in plain English, "begging letters," could not for a
moment be thought of, and the lawyer's kindness failed to impress
him. It was easy enough to ask a fellow to dinner, and to hold out
vague offers of service; but Donovan had seen too hollow a corner of
the world to put any faith in this sort of friendship. He resolved,
however, to call on two or three great men whom in the old times he
and his mother had visited; his name at least would be known to them.
He would at any rate follow the lawyer's advice, and try for work.
But each effort was doomed to fail. The first of the old
acquaintance was kind indeed, but not encouraging; he knew of nothing
in the least suitable, regretted extremely his inability to help his
young friend. The second flattered him, assured him that with such
advantages he could not fail to get on in the world, and promised
that if ever he heard of any appointment likely to suit him he would
let him know at once. The third, an overwrought man, always
oppressed by twice as much work as he could properly manage, received
him with scant courtesy, listened to his story coldly, and dismissed
him with a curt refusal; it was no use coming to him, he had a
thousand applications of the kind--they were, in fact, the bane of
his existence. He could offer no help at all--he wished Mr. Farrant
good day.
It was not till the close of this third interview that Donovan
altogether realised his position. With hot cheeks, for he was still
young enough to flush easily at any discourtesy, he turned his back
on the chambers of the harassed and churlish man of the world, made
his way along the crowded pavements of Parliament Street, and without
any distinct purpose bent his steps towards the river. It was a hot
afternoon in early June, but what little air there was reached him as
he leant on the parapet of Westminster Bridge, his face propped
between both hands, his eyes bent down on the sparkling sunlit water.
What was the use of his life? he asked himself dejectedly. How
indeed was he to live? His acquaintances one and all refused or were
not able to help him, his home ties were all broken, there was not a
single being in the world who would help him or care for him. Under
such circumstances, would it not be well to seek that "refuge in the
cavern of cold death" which he had taught himself to consider as the
goal, the end of all things? What harm could it do to anyone? There
was no one to miss him except Waif, and not to be would be ineffable
peace! No more craving for Dot's presence, no more gnawing
disappointment and weariness of life, no more suffering from
injustice, no more misery of loneliness. And yet---- What would his
father have said? And then, too, was there not some natural physical
shrinking from such an end? After all, he was very young, and the
boy-life within him began to assert itself above the morbid
overgrowth. Life as it was, was certainly not worth having, but
surely there must be some brightness in store for him! The sun shone
down in golden splendour on the river, the pleasure-steamers and the
smaller boats were borne past him rapidly; the mere animal joy of
existence overcame for the time his darker thoughts.
Yet what was he to do? He did not know the Bible well, but he had of
course heard it read in his school days and before he gave up
church-going, now from some odd recess of memory there floated back
the words--"Make to yourselves friends of the mammon of
unrighteousness that when ye fail they may receive you into
everlasting habitations." He smiled a little to himself as he
thought of the solution of this perplexing passage which his life was
bringing to light. He had certainly taken no pains in the old days
to make friends; where he could have wished friendship there had
always been a shrinking back on the other side; his bad name had kept
back good companions; his natural nobility had guarded him from
making real friends of bad people, although he had been in the way of
evil companionship very often. But a real friend he had never known.
Certainly his circumstances were sufficiently dreary to have brought
to despair a far better regulated mind than his; the misery and
hopelessness surged in upon him afresh, the healthy pleasure in
existence died away, the brightness of the summer day only increased
his sick longing for something to fill the emptiness of his life.
Just as he had slowly raised himself and was about to move on from
the place where he had been leaning, he heard himself addressed in a
voice which, though not exactly familiar to him, he yet seemed to
have heard somewhere.
"Good day, I think we've had the pleasure of meeting before."
Turning round hastily, he at once recognized the dark-browed man with
whom he had travelled up from Greyshot, his antagonist in the game,
his ally in the argument.
"I've been watching you for some minutes," said the stranger, "only
you seemed so deep in meditation that I wouldn't disturb you. I've
often thought of you since that day we met on the Great Western."
"Have you?" said Donovan, brightening a little, for the man's manner
had a certain attractiveness in it; then, after a moment's pause, he
added, "Why, I wonder?"
"Why?" repeated the stranger, "because I like you, and it is so
seldom I do like anyone that naturally, from the very oddity of the
thing, I thought of you."
They had moved on while talking, and now, leaving the bridge, walked
along the embankment. Donovan liked the man, and yet was too
reserved and too prudent to care to make any advances to him. The
stranger began to see that he must take the initiative.
"Have you found the work you were looking out for?" he asked, turning
his dark restless eyes on his companion.
Donovan shook his head, all his despondency returning at this
allusion.
"I thought as much from your look," said the stranger. "You haven't
found it such an easy matter as you expected. If you are hard up
though, it is just possible that I may know of employment which would
suit you."
"You! Do you indeed?" cried Donovan, eagerly. "But perhaps I shan't
be up to it; I don't mind telling you that, up to a very little time
ago, I never dreamed that I should have to work for my living; now,
through a great injustice, I am on my own hook, with only a
five-pound note between me and beggary."
"So bad as that," said the stranger, thoughtfully, "then perhaps you
will not be too scrupulous for the work I was thinking of; you are
certainly well cut out for it. Look! If I treat you with entire
confidence and openness, may I take it for granted that you will not
abuse my trust?"
"Of course," said Donovan, growing interested.
"If you will come with me, then, to my rooms, I will explain the sort
of work which I mean, you will not of course be bound to accept it if
you don't like it. My name is Frewin; the old man you met with me
the other night is my father; we are generally called _Rouge et
Noir_."
Donovan smiled at the singular appropriateness of the nickname. The
stranger continued,
"That you may believe me, I will tell you that it is not all from
disinterested motives that I seek you out and try to help you, no one
in the world goes upon such motives, self-interest is the great
ruling principle; you are admirably suited to help me in my work,
that is my first reason; I like you and am sorry for you, that is my
second. Now I have made a clean breast of it all, will you come?"
"Of course I will," said Donovan, without an instant's hesitation.
He committed himself to nothing by this, why should he not go? And
besides, these were the first helpful friendly words which he had
heard for so long.